Bitter Musings from a Sarcastic Soul
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: “I'm not insane--I'm sarcastic."


**Story Title:** Bitter Musings from a Sarcastic Soul

**Author:** Hawk Martin

**Disclaimer:** I own the characters Elizabeth Whitney, Katherine Jackson, and Samuel Whitney. I do not own anyone else, nor do I claim to. So there.

**Dedication:** To anyone who thinks love is bullshit…

**A/N:** This was weird.  It goes from angsty to humor in seconds, so sorry about that, but that's just how Liz is.  She's…very sarcastic all the time, so when she begins to delve deeper, it's not because she has mood swings.  Sometimes she just can't hold it in that much.

**Summary:** "And I don't mean to deep because sometimes thinking about this hurts, but…well, you come to a time when smoking doesn't help, when drinking doesn't numb the pain, when drugs just don't cover it. But you're addicted and screwed. Guess that's life.  My statement for the day: life is really horny."

**Notes:** None really.

**Rating:** R, for later chapters, swearing, and heavy content.

**Warning:** I'm not racist.  Really.

_"Sarcasm: the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded."_

_--Feodor Dostoyevsky (1821–1881), Russian novelist. Notes from Underground, ch. 2, sct. 4 (1864).___

**_Wednesday, September 1, 2004_**

--**10:00 PM****, Train—**

Brits suck.

They like tea, large clocks named common things like Benjamin, and they have horrible singing voices. I mean, honestly—God save the bloody queen? Whoever invented the British should smartly smack them self across the face. I hate Brits. I hate England. Fuck this.

Just not literally. That'd be painful.

I'm on the train now with Mrs. Smith—original name, I know—who seems keen on either looking at me, staring out of the window, readjusting her hat, or my personal favorite, threatening to kill me with a dull spoon and cyanide if I contemplate the greater meaning of cheese again. The entire French culture is built around cheese—might as well figure it out now. Who knows? The Brits could have a thing for dairy products as well.

I'm bored, and writing in you doesn't help. Why do I have to go back to school again? To learn? Bah. Education. You can't eat it, it doesn't smell nice, and there are absolute bastards conducting it. Like Severus Snape.

Narcissistic cauldron-sniffing moron.

Not that I'm biased, but once a man calls you a "Gryffindor twirp with no sense of direction on the free lands" a thousand times, you begin to dislike him. Immensely. With large bouts of fiery passion and small bombs. No, I'm not planning anything against him. Hahahaha.

Yes, I'm evil.

I like Hogwarts—don't get me wrong. Nice atmosphere, good food—they actually feed you there; who knew?—and a decent amount of people that don't ask you anything because they're all dim. And it was better than that so-called Catholic Purification Center I was landed in. Bloody psychos, may they burn in Hell. Not because they're Catholic, though—just because they're weird.

Mrs. Smith is looking oddly at me again. I can't imagine why. I didn't do anything to merit this unnecessary amount of scrupulous attention. I only pointed out that there was a dangerous-looking bird standing on her head, then failed to realize that was indeed her hat. Or hair. I can't remember which. Either way, it moved. And now I'm inching away slowly…

Ow. Hit a wall. Fucker.

I've got to go because apparently it's been 12 hours since I last ate and Mrs. Smith is getting sick of me watch the food cart with a pout upon my face. That bitch. I do not pout—I whimper. Big difference.

Ahem. I'll be back later.

**--****10:46 PM****, Still Train—**

We're almost at England, after traveling for…yes, well, lovely weather outside. And how about that Braveheart movie? I was particularly fond of that Irish guy. And I do talk to God. After all, I speak with myself all of the time. Yes, I am your Creator. Bow down to me. Ha. Take that, Snape.

The food cart woman blinked at me when I asked for something illegal to drink. What did she expect? Irish fifteen year old+ long train ride chalk-full of Brits+ proper school, assholes with stick up their arses, and one very weird headmaster= desperate need to get smashed. Really smashed. So smashed that I don't remember why I got smashed in the first place, but that doesn't bother me because they are purple dots in the sky and why is Elvis Presley speaking to me?

So she gave me an orange juice and the number to her therapist, Dr. John Szkrechlyshuckshanks. Yes, that's his name. I laughed for a whole 3 minutes before realizing she wasn't joking. Then I laughed harder. Ah, to be young, cruel, and with a relatively simple name to remember…

--**11:00 PM****, Train in Train Station in ****England**** (help me)--**

…We're at the Station. I'm going to see Kat, and Erin, and Emma, and dear God. No, I won't be seeing him, but I just realized that Emma shall have a fit when she sees my lip, and the large piercing in the middle of it. And the red streaks in my hair. And the fact that I'm taller, skinnier, and still a brunette, despite the recent highlights. I think she resents the fact that she's the smart one, and blonde. Not my fault if irony is exceptionally entertaining…

As we go through the platform, Mrs. Smith clears her throat as she always does when I'm supposed to pay attention. And I never do.

"Now, Elizabeth…" Elizabeth? No one calls me that. Liz, Lizzie, asshole, Hey—Irish chick… Though, if Mrs. Smith called me Irish Chick, I think I'd shoot myself. Or her. Or the nearest pigeon. 

I raise an eyebrow at her, not truly paying attention, but she doesn't know that. Ha.

Kat, Fred, George, Ron, Draco, Erin, and Emma are all together off near the train, talking, giggling, and do other various things I will never understand because I'm Irish and straight. And I don't care what Kat says, I will not be corrupted damnit.

…Well, just not by them. That'd be sick.

And Mrs. Smith is still talking.

And I'm still not listening.

…Monkeys?

No, wait, telephones. Ah…

I have problems.

"Are we clear, Miss Whitney?"

"Crystal. Unless, of course, the glass is fogged…"

She shooed me. _Shooed_ me. Bitch.

I'm walking down the path now, carrying my trunk up to the Hogwarts Train, and making fun of the English silently inside of my head. They don't have to know I'm plotting their future destruction. People are with their parents and…happy. And I don't mean to deep because sometimes thinking about this hurts, but…well, you come to a time when smoking doesn't help, when drinking doesn't numb the pain, when drugs just don't cover it. But you're addicted and screwed. Guess that's life.

My statement for the day: life is really horny.

--**11:30 PM****, New Train with New Brits—**

Successfully avoided my old friends and my sister, who is currently living it up with her perfect boyfriend. Perfect Sarah Whitney living the Perfect Life with her Perfect Boyfriend, Mr. Perfect Quidditch Star Harry Potter.

I'm not bitter.

Emma, Kat, and Erin are off in another compartment, probably wondering where I am. I refuse to see them, though. I spent the entire summer locked up in a room, beaten to a bloody bit, avoiding their goddamn letters. Just doesn't seem to have point to be happy. Then again, it probably never did and I was just too high to notice. How ironic.

Now I'm just writing in you, turning over past conversations and mistakes and why everyone other Brit seems to have horrible teeth. Do they not know the meaning of a toothbrush? I was bleeding to death o'er this summer, doing things no one in the right mind should do, and still I managed good hygiene. Must be an English thing. Look at Snape.

Bloody ponce.

--**5:00 PM****, Hogwarts—**

Home. Anti-home. The kind of home that I've been avoiding for two months.

I need help.

We've been filed into the Great Hall as responsible 5th years; I choose a seat closest to the far wall. Sev—_Snape_ looks particularly menacing; McGonagal casts a sour look at me—she still resents the whole kitten-honey-fire incident with her room—; all the other teachers just look tired. Though, Lupin's back so that's good.

I think.

The food turns to ashes in my mouth, the way people stare is unnerving. They're all talking about me, laughing in a frightened way. I know why. I understand why. It haunts me, mocks me; waits for my eyes to close before it snaps my neck. Again, and again, and again…

Emma finally approaches me with a smile and questions me. How was my summer? Did I not receive the letters? Am I okay? I worry her. I should eat more. I'm too thin. I'm nothing, I'm a substitute; I'm a fucking liar.

They all filter in with elusive grins and comforting thoughts. It wasn't my fault. No big deal. Didn't mean for it to end this way. But it did. And we're not friends anymore. And why are you talking to me? And what the hell is in that soup? To get away dark thoughts…

I can't believe Emma's going with Malfoy. That blonde-haired, rich-father, "bad dye job with huge ears" wanker is nothing more than a bloody Brit with more money than he has IQ. He made a _brilliant_ ferret, though. Even if he was evil, that Moody rocked. Malfoy, the famous boucing ferret…

That truly was the best day of my life.

I have led a truly uneventful life.

Lord help me.

**_Thursday, September 2, 2004_**

--**12:23 PM****, My Bed, Or the Floor, Girls Dormitory, ****Hogwarts****, ****England****, Next to the Bloody ****Atlantic Ocean****—**

By all rights I should be asleep. Safe. Unconscious. Not silently ranting and raving and counting the ceiling tiles. And then, five minutes later, I realize there is a severe lack of ceiling tiles—they haven't got any—and I need a hobby.

In exactly 6 hours, 27 minutes, and approximately 10 seconds…9 seconds—this could go on forever—I will "wake" and go to my classes. I bribed the Prefect to give my schedule early—bloody idiot got ecstatic when I mentioned the word "naked stripper," which is an oxymoron right there—and am now craving suicide. First period Potions. With Snape.

Who _hates_ me.

Sometimes more than Harry, I think.

Which is absolutely terrifying.

I can't even imagine why.  I don't talk to him, and Snape doesn't know I am secretly plotting his death why calling him a hygienically disturbed pedophile behind his back.  It's not like he is psychic.

Though sometimes I wonder.

How could he be?  Bloody Brit…

And now I worry.

Damn.

I'm in trouble.

--**8:00 PM****, Hallway—**

He called me a dimly lit fireplace.

A _fireplace_.

A _dimly lit_ one.

Asshole.

I am not dimly it.  I happen to be very vibrant, thank you very much.

Like a candle.

When it's lit.

Thus my point.

Ahem.  Anyway—

We were in Potions, with Ron and I paired up together.  As usual.  I usually end up watching Ron try to figure out the difference between scarab guts and squirrel brains while Snape breathes down our necks and tells us _exactly _what is wrong.  And, of course, it tends to stem from Ron's lack of brilliance and my lack of effort, however surplus of pyromaniac tendencies.  A dangerous combination that I love to watch play out.

With gasoline.  Ha.  Ha.  Eat that Snape.  And matches.

Anyway, as I saying, Ron and I were working relatively well.  We actually finished the bloody potion.  Well, _he_ finished the bleeding potion and I did my Charms homework.  I'm a multi-tasker with a poor sense of timing.  What can I say?

Snape came over with that sigh and mighty look upon his face, and paused to glance at the potion.  He sniffed.  He prodded.  That bastard did everything but anything useful.  And he compliments _Ron_.  Compliments.  As in says something decent.  What does he say about me?

I'm a bloody fireplace.  I'm something used to warm a house.

"Miss Whitney, your poor lack of effort is disappointing.  You are a dimly lit fireplace, in desperate need of guidance.  Come after school for detentions and extra help to work on your…ah…somewhat unsatisfactory grade."

Bullshit.  I was compared to a heating device.  And now I have to come after classes.  How am I going to explain that to Angelina?  "Sorry, Angie, but I can't come to practice anymore because Snape thinks I'm a bad stove."  She'd kill me.  Worse, she'd probably talk to Snape.  And _make_ me go.

It's a fucking conspiracy and everyone is against me.  Brits absolutely suck.

--**8:****01 PM****, Unknown Chair—**

Snape has a beard.

--**8:02 PM****, Next to Chair (gave me lip)—**

Snape cut his hair.

--**8:04 PM****, Unknown Chair Again—**

Girls _like _Snape.

_Gryffindor_ girls like Snape.

Completely sane females have just gone and lost any marbles they may have possessed beforehand.  They find the neurotic Potions Master—and I shudder at this—_cute_.

Emma giggled.

Fucking giggled.

_Emma._

Lord help me.  And if he doesn't, fuck him.  Just not literally.  Don't want to end up like the Virgin Mary.  Too hard to explain to the Headmaster.

--**8:45 AM, Charms Class—**

Professor Flitwick positively beamed at me when I got bored and decided to burn my book.  I'm destructive headcase, and he was utterly enthralled when I pulled a trick in class while his back was turned.  Poor, poor, little man.

I blame the beard, quite honestly.  Everyone knows that white beards stump your growth.  Forget the lack of milk.  And ignore the fact that Dumbledore is reasonably tall and imposing.  Just roll with me here.

Or don't; that's fine too.

Anyway, I got this trick from god knows where which involves two things: a lighter and a card.  Throw the card up in there air once lit; wave your wand, and the card bursts into crimson flames, turning into a flashing hawk.  And I like that trick, mind you, but…when graded?  But, then, it won't save.  I've got the highest grade in that class, and it's a bloody B.  I'm not an overachiever.

I always did question Flitwick's sanity, though.  He gave me five bonus points on a test for describing why blowing up books is a very important skill.  Then he made me write a bloody paper on it.  And _hand it in_.  The man has lost all sense of…well, realistic reality—and yes, I happen to like that term.  And, naturally he is also my favorite teacher on the entire staff.

I have brilliant taste.

Absolutely brilliant.

…Is that a plane?

--**8:47 AM, Charms Class—**

Good news: it wasn't a plane.  Just a demonic bird that _thought_ it was plane, but I managed to convince it otherwise before it committed suicide.  I should become a bird handler.  I could save millions!

Scrap that idea.  Moving on…

Charms is almost over in exactly 13 minutes and I'm practically giddy with the idea.  Because I get giddy for the most random of reasons.  And, apparently, I'm going to flunk this year as well.  In all of my classes.  Well, I suppose if I'm not going to amount to anything, might as well enjoy screwing up.  And with style.

I'm so vain.

--**10:****11 PM****, Defense Against the Dark Arts—**

I always wondered what exactly _defined_ the dark arts.  The poofy robes that were so out of style they _had_ to be evil?  The pale faces that made albinos look positively tan?  Or was it the small factor of death in…everything they did that was considered slightly artistic?  Maybe that's how the Dark Arts were started.  Artists of the 18th century were pissed because they weren't getting paid enough, so they went on strike.  And by going on strike, these so-called bohemians gave up taking showers.  So they got dirty.  And thus got black.  Or dark.  This class is the defense against possessed, filthy painters going on strike because of lack of funding.

Professor Lupin would be so fond of this explanation.

We're learning basic spells today.  Again.  You know—the regular review every teacher goes through at the beginning of their classes for no logical reasons except to bore you.  A lot.

I like Professor Lupin, don't get me wrong.  We've a bit of a history, but hey, no use in living in the past. That'd be pretty difficult.  But if you could, it'd be cool.  I'll have to try that sometime.  Note to self: live in the past just to spite elders.

Well, I'm going to go avoid Ron and try to look innocent.  Because I can and seeing the baffled looks upon people's faces is entertaining.  Have fun being inanimate.

--**11:34 PM****, Great Hall—**

I'm eating lunch alone, because I've decided that if I'm going to be the school's fuck-up, I should exhibit all likely signs of a rebellious, antisocial attitude.  And I think I shall get a tattoo, just to be completely random and rather intimidating.

All right, then.

They look so goddamn happy.  Motherfuckers.

I think I'm going to be sick.

--**11:45 PM****, Bathroom Floor—**

Remind me to never drink again.  Ever.

Or, at least until tonight rolls around.

What?  I'm Irish.  This is what I do.  Because I'm stereotypical and predictable and goddamnit, who invented citric acids?

Wow.  The ceiling's gold…

There _is_ a ceiling…

Since when did that happen?

--**12:34 PM****, Some Class That I Should Be Paying Attention To, But Find That I Am Indeed Not—**

I don't think McGonagal is overly fond of me.  And I just figured out I'm in Transfiguration.

…Maybe that's _why_ she's not overly fond of me.

Apparently I have a tremendous amount of talent, just a horrible lack of motivation.  I am so under appreciated.

The fact that I have been called a fireplace with no sense of effort or direction notwithstanding, I am indeed insulted.  I have lots of motivation, just not for anything useful.  Or legal.  Not my fault I'm a bad egg that turned into a full-fledged psychotic hawk.  Who was given a lighter carelessly early in life.

I love stupid people.

--**1:****10 PM****, Arithmancy—**

Half of the time in this class I actually forget what we're studying.  So I start learning something else.  And then I get in trouble for learning something else in the wrong class but I don't know it's the wrong class so then I get in trouble for just being daft.

Teachers are assholes.

Professor Victor is getting agitated.  It appears to be an offense to not pay attention in class.  How was I supposed to know.  What does she expect me to do?  …Listen?

Manic-depressive, histrionic schizo.

I'm being paired up with Draco.  And he looks worried.  Like I might kill him.  Woohoo.

I send him a death glare and sigh, sitting back in my usual way.  He eyes the chain, the black eyeliner, and the occasional raised eyebrow.  I'm not out there, punky, completely off-guard.  I'm just different than he, slightly subtler than the others in this school.  And that frightens him.  Two points to me for scaring the pompous Brit.

"Your name is…"

"God."

"Liz."

"I prefer the Holy Father, but sure.  We can work with that."

"…You're not religious are you?"

"It's a bit 'ard to believe in m'self nowadays."

He frowns, obviously confused.  For a split second, I almost pity him.

"…You're not really God…are you?"

"Try me."

"…What's my deepest secret?"

"You masturbated once."

"…Males do that!" He hisses at me angrily, cheeks reddening slightly.

"Sure.  But when it 'appened, you were thinkin' 'bout Kevin Bacon."

Poor Draco sputters at me, obviously flabbergasted at how I knew this sparkling piece of information.  Bwaha—I love my sources.  God can now save the queen.

We work in silence, as the Slytherin is too embarrassed to say anything and I'm still chuckling at the look on his face.  Not only is Draco a bouncing ferret, he's also a gay one.

Ah well—it's legal in Canada.

--**2:13 PM****, Care of Magical Creatures Where Everything Is Legal if It's Fluffy—**

Crabs frighten me.

They're red for starters, flat-headed, and feel the need to have two very large claws as opposed to something less…painful.  Like oven mitts…or even bloody tea cups.  We are in Britain, after all.  No—they have claws.  That must be a painful way to live.  Too many things at stake, really.  Think of the masturbation complications.  And mating must be a bitch.  No wonder crabs are dying out.

…I am a deeply sexually disturbed person.

Don't get me wrong—I like Hagrid.  By all means.  He's a good guy who could quite possibly crush me with his left pinkie.  But…he doesn't seem too fond of me either.  In fact, all my teachers seem to hate me.

Bastards.

I sit here quietly, pondering absolutely nothing at all, and silently remember fourth year.  I seem to constantly return there, but never give the full story.  I suppose some things are just better left buried.  As my thoughts swirl deeper into a mist of black regret, Hagrid's booming voice breaks my depression.  Begging your pardon, Hagrid, but I was having a moment here.

"All righ'!  Now….fer yer 'omework, read Chapter 1 an' take some notes!  Quiz tomorrow, an' I'll 'ave no whinin', ya 'ear?  Class dismissed!"

The students scramble idly as I lag behind, watching Kat, Emma, and Erin laugh.  They're happy, joyously moving on with life.  Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.  Knowledge is power.  So, really, if you're smart and powerful, you're absolutely depressed and probably going to commit suicide despite the vast amount of riches.  However, if you're ignorant and happy, you're weak and therefore shall be killed off anyway so you can't really enjoy your happiness.  Not a very good deal.

Ah, well.  They're British.  Probably will just have a cup of that bloody tea—brings a whole new meaning to cyanide, let me tell you—talk about the bleeding weather, and in a few hours, be as giddy as…well, other giddy people.

…Dare I say 'lost souls'?

**--3:****05 PM****, History of Magic or Something Else That Already Happened—**

Remind me what I did to deserve this.

Better yet, remind me what I _didn't_ do to deserve this.

Goblin wars.  Vampire revolts.  Fairies doing fairy-like things that is somehow responsible for the manufacturing of plastic.  Bloody wankers.  It's history.  It's dead; it's over—let's move on.  Fucking hell…

_Now_ who's living in the past?

All right, ignoring the fact that Binns is dead.  He did die while he was still teaching History of Magic.  In the Staff Room.  Must be a shame, you know?  You live your entire life teaching about dead people, and then you die.  He should talk 'bout himself.  He's history.  Being as he's dead.  Maybe I'll ask him one time.  The Biography of a Decaying Artifact Who Has Impeccable Hearing.

We can still work with this.

He remains at the front of this dusty classroom—which, I swear, is by no means sanitary—his voice musty and saturated with the utter boredom that is intelligence.  I'm not a big fan of Einstein, no.

"…Miss Whitney?"  I glance up sharply from my drawing and pause, nervously chewing on my lip ring.  A raise eyebrow is my usual response to his calling, an expecting gesture of slightly irritated attention.

"Do you know the answer?"

"…42?" How many roads must a man walk down to find himself?  Life, the Universe, and Everything.  Ha.  Take that Madame Pince—I can read.

"Ah…the question, actually, was the name of a famous wizarding rebel of Ireland in 1642."  I frown, and then pause thoughtfully.  I know the answer, but do I wish to share it with the class an' a very see-through dead man?

"Jael Whitney," I mumble nonchalantly, going back to my work.  He blinks, quite unsure how to handle this.  He didn't expect me to know the answer, and now is faced with the problem most teachers sweat over: what to do when a presumed headcase 'as a bit of intelligence, and is now a threat because they probably know how to blow up the school.  And what you did last summer.

And I do.

"That's…correct.  Five points to Gryffindor…" The bell rings as the rest of the class freezes in half-horror, half-something else that I haven't bothered to name yet.  Professor Binns forgets to give us homework as I walk out, checking my watch.  Classes are over.  How lovely.

--**4:****01 PM****, The Hallway—**

…Do you think Snape will notice if I don't show up in his dungeons for those…sessions?

**--4:03, Another Hallway Named Albert—**

He's not that observant.

--**4:04, Hallway Named Albert—**

Snape's a bloody moron, after all.  I've nothing to worry about…

--**4:05, Not Albert Anymore—**

…He noticed.

**--4:30, Dungeons—**

As much as I thought I couldn't stand Snape before, I was wrong.  The man is a bloody pompous Brit, strict as a bedpost, and not nearly at perverted.  I'd be surprised if he ever had sex.  Hell, I'd be surprised if he could _spell_ sex.  And it's not that hard a word to spell.  Just shows how bloody inept the man is.

I don't get what people see in him.  Mustache, beard, short hair, pale skin, and near black eyes.  That's not devilishly handsome, that's merely the example of an extremely creepy Dungeons Master…who just _happens_ to have a small fangirl following.

I am not one of said psychotics.

Blow up the school?  I can handle that.  Lose my parents and bury the pain for a thousand years?  Been there.  Be in the dungeons with a man that hates me and would sooner throw me off a cliff than raise my grade?  I believe that is asking a bit.  Just a bit.  

I suppose I understand why Snape hates me.  My father and all that, and really it's quite my fault and…

I don't care if I bloody understand him.  Snape is an ass.

A huge ass.

An _American_ ass.

Bwauhaha…

He's looking at me funny, head cocked to the side slightly with a small smile playing upon those lips.  Worried, maybe?  Nah—he's probably deciding the best punishment in which to torture me.  What'll it be?  Shackles?  No, no—they're rust too quickly and make too much noise.  Make me watch Swedish Porn?  Well, seeing as how Snape hasn't got any porn…

…does he?

Dear Lord, someone shoot me.

_Now._

"…Miss Whitney…are you aware of your grade average since last year?"

"…Nonexistent?"

"If it was nonexistent, Miss Whitney, then we wouldn't be able to talk about whether or not you aware of it, now would we?"

"So, if we aren't able to talk about it, I'll be leavin' now…"

He sighs and locks the door by blinking.

By bloody blinking.  
  


The man is either possessed, British, or an evil Dungeons Master out to get me with an army of rabid bunnies and overdone prostitutes.  Coincidentally, I do believe he is all of these things, and I have now promptly frightened myself into something else less…well, frightening.

…

Never mind.

"Please, sit down," He says nonchalantly with that usual omniscient elegance so widely known and avoided AT ALL COSTS during the day.  I pause, and then obediently slump into the chair before his desk, and frown, using bad posture and smirking slightly.  If I have bad grades, I might as well be obnoxious.  After all, I could've been sleeping now.

(No, you couldn't have.)

Shut up, you.  No one particularly takes amusement in an insane Irish girl talking to her various personalities.

(Is that all I am to you?  A bloody personality?  You daft wanker.)

There is no need for name calling.

(Who was the one that found your bed last night?  Who was the one that sought revenge on Sarah and dyed her hair a menacing shade of orange?)

It was both of us, you pansy nit, and if you keep this up, I'll—

(You'll what?  What are you going to do?  Bleed on me?)

You're a loony.

(The Black Knight is invincible!)

...

I'm not that insane, you know.

"Miss Whitney, are you listening to me?"

I glance up from my Monty Python influenced thoughts and nod slowly, having absolutely no idea what he just said and not particularly caring.  He smiles elusively once more and sighs, checking his grade book.  Finding what he wants, Snape looks up at me again and sighs, clearing wanting to "cut to the chase," as the saying goes.  Except, I never understood that saying to begin with—what chase?  The cat an' mouse one?  And if so, where's the bloody cat and mouse, and why hasn't anyone found them yet?

"Have you been sleeping?"  He asks suddenly, straying from whatever point I expected from him.

"…Sleepin'?"

"Yes—it's where the body lies down—preferably upon a bed—and rests one's mind…it's quite comforting, actually."

"I know what sleep is, Professor."

"That's very good.  Now, have you been practicing it?"

"…Well, I do like to play a good game of ski ball with my Z's every now an' again."

Snape smiles—fucking _smiles._  Like…an actual grin…where your mouth moves and…

I did not know 'e could smile.

Fucking hell.

We sit in silence for a moment or two, him watching me quietly in amused thought; I merely sit there, bored.  I glance back up at him and wave, somewhat sarcastically, and he nods politely in response.  Damned wanker.

And only then do I realize that he actually has…eyes.  

…

My God, Snape just might be human!  Now don't get your hopes up, children—the man still enjoys a good night down in the dankness of a porno-filled dungeon.  That doesn't make him human—merely British.

Stupid British.

Stupid porn.

Stupid _British_ porn.

Ahem, anyway—as the greatest scientist known to…the people that known scientists, I shall conduct an experiment proving to the world—or at least myself, which I daresay is enough of the world for me—that Professor Snape is not actually a decent, good-looking bachelor, but a rabid bunny out to eat Tyra Banks.

Poor, poor Webster.

**-4:46, Dungeons-**

Sorry, I zoned out.

It's those damned pixies…

Anyway—to continue with my experiment.  I plan to not only diabolically fool Snape into admitting he is a sinister rodent, I also want his wallet.  The man must save a fortune on soap.

Bwahaha.  I am a true evil genius.

Or just a psycho very high on oxygen, but everyone knows that the elements are tricky little pranksters, now aren't they?

Hello, Clarice…

Er…yes.  I have methodically laid out an absolutely brilliant strategy—if I do say so myself—and am ready to begin the procedure.

Step 1:  Blink.  

          Now this is a very important step because if one forgets to blink, one's eyes will water slightly and thus lose all intimidating effects.

Step 2:  Breathe.

          Basically for the same reasons as step 1, except that your lungs won't water—just explode.  Silly, silly organs…

Step 3:  Glare menacingly.

          I'm not quite sure why this is important, or how it will prove my theory, except that it sounds fun.  And House-Elves hate it.

Step 4:  Get—

"Miss Whitney?"  Snape interrupts my thoughts rudely once more, peering at me with mildly concerned interest.  I look up sharply and raise an eyebrow, as nicely as I possibly can.

Which isn't really that nice and actually a bit irritating.

"Er…yes, Professor?"

I answer quietly, not noticing that I feel like I'm about to pass out.  I just sit there, and wait, and watch, and think, until there's nothing left to do but wonder why I haven't died yet.  Snape watches me with those eyes, and waits as well, for another coherent sentence or my father to come back or—

Nothing—just silence.

"You look pale."

My thoughts are no longer dancing, full of sardonic musings or entertained mockery.  They just sit there, like me, absolutely dormant and completely still.  I'm pale—I'm gone.  And what's gone you can no longer see, no longer feel or touch.

Sometimes I wonder why I change gears so often.

He stands, and I follow suit.  We face each other, two individuals staying eye to eye.  I briefly note the contours of his face; the white skin riddled hidden concern and humanity.  I raise my gaze to his own, icy crystals meeting ravenous gems.

Humor can't conceal everything.

"Liz," He breathes softly, eyes captivated upon my lips, never wavering in their imminent stare.  I close mine and step back, forever putting distance between myself and humanity.

It just doesn't feel worth it anymore.

Sev pulls me back with his protective arms and I glance up once more.  Who am I?  He doesn't know.  I don't know.  All I've got are bitter musings from a sarcastic soul.

He can't save me.

He kisses me anyway.

It's soft, and wanting, and slow, and…

It's _there_.

I close my eyes and let it happen, knowing that, as psychotic as it sounds, I am beginning to join his fangirl club.  Serenity hangs for a brief moment in time before we both realize that we just kissed.  The Teacher and the Student.  Professor Snape and Miss Whitney.

Sev and Liz.

I lean in, and we kiss once more—harder, more desperate.  The world falls away for a half an hour as we stand there, bathing in each other's immortal embrace.  Everything's fine—we're happy…until I hear footsteps.  We pull away, just in time, to find that minutes later Angelina is standing breathless in the doorway, eyes ablaze.

"Liz…it's Sarah…"  I look up at her, eyebrow raised.

"I think she's dead."


End file.
